


Rations

by rin0rourke



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 01:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14557521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rin0rourke/pseuds/rin0rourke
Summary: Thorin could admit to some benefits in bringing the halfling along on the quest, but there was a reason trail fare were made of cram and dried meats instead of soft ripened fruits.





	Rations

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted to write a Before the Quest seduction fic by a Tumblr ask. Its my first attempt at writing this fandom, but I hope I did it well enough.

The fire in the hearth was dying.

Thorin stared into the flames, more a rolling wave of orange than a flickering fire, and considered adding fuel. Though he had bargained with himself to go to sleep before the fire died adding something to it, a bit of kindling maybe or a certain contract, would not really be reneging, he wasn't relighting the fire after all... just prolonging it a short time. To think. 

The strange house was warm and quiet, his Company long since bedded down. Beside him on the couch snoozed Dwalin, and Nori had taken the chair. The youngest and eldest had been given beds, a strange courtesy by their strange little host, they would all be sleeping on the ground from here on, had been doing so for a time. 

Another group of dwarves may have argued the luxuries go to those of higher birth, Thorin didn't know if it was a good or poor reflection that his did not. It should not have become so natural among them to give their best to the weak and ill, even when none were among them. It spoke too well of their need, that none questioned their own share.

There was still the unavoidable exception. His room.

He could have, would preferred to have, shared a bed with his boys. Give the spare bed to another family group, so that Dwalin and Balin shared, and Gloin with Oin, instead of the two elders together and their brothers left with the couches in the multitude of sitting rooms within this strange abode. 

The room had been too quiet, the bed too soft and the fabric to freshly cleaned, some kind of flower or herb had been added in the laundering process to perfume it. It was long from the camps on the road, longer still from the inns in the towns of men, and lacked the steady hum of activity within his mountain. He had stalked into the smoking parlor, intending to rouse Dwalin and order him into the room with whoever else would go. Let him have the couch by the fire, where the shifting of the embers would chase the uneasy silence away.

He knew it would be folly as soon as he entered the parlor. Dwalin was the last person who would take his king’s room, all the ones he could order and bully already had beds of their own, the remainder were too set in their ideas of propriety and duty.

He was the King, and he was not allowed to go without.

Except, he thought sourly clamping his pipe in his teeth and reaching for the iron poker to stir the coals, in regards to the feast earlier that night.

“Oh.” A breathy voice had him turning to the round entryway where their halfling host stood, one hand on the wall and the other tugging his bedclothes, some silly patchwork robe, closed. “I'm sorry, I thought everyone would be asleep.”

Thorin regarded him in the low light. The irritation at having his thoughts interrupted softened by a sudden bemusement, like a sparring sword wrapped in oiled leather to conceal its sharpness. His host, who was not even pledging himself to their quest, was apologizing for wandering about his own home. 

Master Baggins swayed in the doorway, nose twitching like a curious little rabbit, before taking a tentative step into the room. “May I?” he indicated to the fireplace.

Thorin inclined his head, but gave no ground as the halfling skittered about on silent feet towards the wood stores, plucking a few slim logs to feed the fire. He couldn’t help but consider the possibilities in those quiet steps, even the clothes made barely a sound. Useful indeed in a burglar, though Thorin had no question to the suitability of this soft creature on their quest, just because a ripe peach would be useful when their supplies ran low didn’t mean one carried it to that point, knowing it would not survive the trip.

Peach, Thorin thought as Master Baggins settled on one of the foot stools by the hearth with his meager load, was a suitable descriptor for this halfling, even among his kind their host was exceptionally soft. The few hobbits Thorin had dealt with had been at least somewhat weathered farmers and workers, he found it difficult to imagine Master Baggins out in the field, sweat soaked and dusty and browned by the sun. No, he blew out a steady stream of smoke and watched those little hands timidly arrange the wood onto the embers attempting to avoid the bite of the sparks, this was not a creature of hard labor.

“Here,” he grunted and knelt, handing the poker to the halfling, who jerked back at his sudden closeness. Thorin reached in and adjusted the logs evenly over the sifted embers with the ease of two centuries stoking forges. Satisfied he braced his hands on his knees to rise and breathed in the comforting smell of woodsmoke.

And flowers.

Angling his head he caught Master Baggins in his gaze, the poor creature gripping the poker to his chest like a shield. Holding out his hand he waited for the hobbit to return the iron, and breathed deeply when he leaned close enough to do so. Yes, flowers, and those herbs from the bed linen. He knew, of course, that the halfling had come from bed but somehow he had not pictured it quite so much in his head, this soft supple peach in that plush mattress with it’s plump pillows and thick quilts.

“Th- ah, Thank You.” The hobbit mumbled, twisting his hands in his robe as Thorin gave the embers beneath the iron grate holding the wood another good stir to assure even heat and air flow, the sleepy fire was already awakened and licking eagerly at the provided fuel. 

“You were the one to fetch the wood, Master Baggins.” Thorin pointed out around the pipe in his mouth, finding the strange manners of his host less amusing the second time around. He set the poker back in its slot and wiped his soot covered hands on his trousers.

“Right, yes, well.. Oh! Here, allow me..“ The hobbit pulled a frilly looking cloth from the pocket of his robe and passed it to him. “The nights are still rather chilled, that is, I should have fed the fires more before bed but I am not used to so much company you see, so I rarely keep the fires in the house going through the night, but with so many without beds it seemed… I just.. wanted to make certain everyone was warm.” The poor house robe had become hopelessly wrinkled during that length of nonsense as the hobbit wrung it between his little fists. 

“I assure you, Master Baggins, that we Dwarves are quite comfortable.” He stated flatly as he scrubbed his hands, it did not escape his notice that the handkerchief smelled of the same mysterious herbs. “We will be camping on the road from here on after all, and we are not the kind to parish from a spring night or cold hearth.” 

“Oh, of course not.” The hobbit fluttered, actually fluttered his hands like an agitated fledgling raven, “I never meant to imply, simply that, as the host I might offer... more.. I was rather horrid at it earlier, and I simply can’t sleep for the thought of it.”

Thorin, irritated at the flapping, set his pipe between his back teeth and caught the hobbit’s hands in his own, shocking the halfling into blessed stillness. “Peace, I meant no censure.” Thorin told him sternly, “You need not concern yourself further with our comforts, a roof and walls are shelter enough. We have our bedrolls and our packs, we have made do with less.”

“Yes well…” The Hobbit cast about for something to say, giving his little hands in Thorin’s large ones a testing tug. Thorin only firmed his hold, not looking away even as the Hobbit refused to meet his eyes. “It… it’s just not done, in the Shire but most especially in Bag End, my kin would have fits.” he sucked his lip between his teeth and gave a strange expression between his nose and eyebrows, his leg beginning to twitch, as if by stilling his hands Thorin had sent the nervous energy bouncing around the hobbit’s body. “Not that they won’t be having fits when they learn I’ve hosted Dwarves, of all guests, but to be a poor host on top of it.” Then he seemed to catch his words and turned he large round eyes back to Thorin, “Not that I am opposed to Dwarvish guests mind you, just that any guest not of hobbitish… that is of another race.. no that’s wrong too. Oh drat.” Master Baggins looked very much to wish to bury his reddening face in his hands, and gave them another tug to do just that, but Thorin held firm.

“My people are not quite used to hosting visitors of other races either.” Thorin admitted, cupping Bilbo’s wrists neatly in one hand as he tapped his pipe out in the hearth, though there was still enough leaf left for a good while yet he simply could not find the attention to spare it, and talking around it was growing tiresome. Feeling the sweep of fingers against his skin he glanced back to see the hobbit staring rather transfixed at the hand holding his still. It wasn’t much, just the thumb and forefinger, yet it neatly encircled thin wrists and allowed those two soft hands to lay curled in his palm.

It was, admittedly, a rather rude gesture to keep them still , but Thorin had the sense that if he let go Master Baggins would start that annoying fluttering again, or perhaps flee entirely in his misplaced embarrassment. Though the later would not be entirely unwanted Thorin had come out to the sitting room to calm his thoughts, not have them aggravated by anxious ticks.

Had the hobbit elected to come on the quest he’d likely fail any task by his nervous twittering, regardless his natural stealth. 

“That is quite the waste of leaf,” the hobbit stated, or rather squeaked, obviously growing uneasy under Thorin’s scrutiny. “Not that it’s much of a loss,” he scrunched his pert little nose at the smell of the pipeweed, if it could be called that, “I’ll have to open the entire smial up to get the scent of that leaf out of my smoking rooms.”

“I find it more bearable than what herbal mixture you add to your linens.” Thorin lifted the handkerchief from his lap and made a minor show of grimacing as he smelled it. The soot had only added a comforting smokeyness it.

“Herbal? Oh, I keep pouches in my chests and drawers, to keep the bugs away.” Master Baggins frowned at the cloth, and his fingers twitched as if to touch it. “I imagine dwarves are more sensitive to it then, it’s hardly meant to be noticeable.” 

“Sensitive…” Thorin murmured, schooling his face against the amusement and insult that any would call him such. They had a similar repellant in the Blue Mountains, though it was stronger, with a medicinal sharpness to it.

“Though I suppose it can’t be helped, smoking what you do, I’m surprised you can still smell at all.” The halfling tried for humor, but his nervously bouncing knee and creaky voice hindered him greatly.

“We cannot all be so fortunate in our choice of pipeweed,” Thorin returned.

“Certainly, oh I had not meant-” he cut himself off and narrowed those wide eyes at Thorin’s twitching lips. “I only meant,” he said primly, sitting a bit straighter, “to offer you some of my own, if you would like to spare yourself the unfortunate experience.” 

“How generous.” Thorin couldn’t help but reply.

“Yes, now if you..” the hobbit tugged pointedly at his hands, still laughably confined between two of his fingers, “I keep a travel pouch in the drawer in the hallway. I’ll fetch it for you.”

Thorin arched his eyebrows in a mockery of surprise, still not loosening his hold. 

“Yes, don't look at me like that, I do travel. Walking holidays, though I’ve not gone farther than the market in some time, I like to take a few days to myself on my way to visit kin. Wouldn’t do to be without it, bad for the nerves you see, and -”

“Stop.” Thorin set his free hand on that annoying, jittery knee and the hobbit bit off what he was saying on a little yip. It was inexcusably rude and far too familiar, but Thorin really couldn’t take that leg bouncing another moment. He made to withdraw, finally giving ground and loosening his hold on those soft twitchy hands, he would never lower himself so much as to apologize for the touch but he could give the hobbit his chance of escape.

Except Master Baggins did not flee. His hands remained in Thorin’s, staring up in his face with wide, dark eyes. Thorin tilted his chin a fraction, intrigued. The hobbit’s pupils were awfully large, and perhaps it was the low light of the newly rekindled fire, perhaps it was something more.

Thorin let the pad of this thumb slide across the soft inner wrist still in the circle of his fingers, ears and eyes trained on the expressive face before him. An intake of breath, low and shuddery, the pulse beneath his thumb fluttered like the wings of a flame blinded moth, and those pupils edged out the pale color of the hobbit’s eyes that much more. How interesting.

Thorin was not a starving dwarf, he had his share of liaisons, but his recent travels and this quest had offered poor rations in the way of lovers, he would likely enjoy an even longer fast in the months ahead and here was this ripe peach…

Carefully, like drawing in a frightened pony by the reigns, Thorin slid his hand up the hobbit’s arm, barely there but for the firmness of his thumb to be felt through the robe as it traced the vein to elbow, to shoulder, and then the knuckle of his pointer finger up neck to chin. Master Baggin’s free hand fell to his lap, but the one Thorin trailed along took hold of his elbow as Thorin tilted his chin just so, clenched in the fabric there.

Yes, a peach was just what Master Baggins was, giving beneath his fingers but with the firmness of health. Thorin’s thumb slid along lips so soft and warm they should by any code of decency be hidden beneath some layer of clothing, then like pressing a thumbnail into the velvet skin of the fruit and being wet by nectar the halfling parted his lips and Thorin found the tip of a tongue taste his touch.

Thorin may have missed the feast that night, but he could not imagine there had been anything on that table so delicious as the feel of that tongue on his finger. His hand, of its own mind, gripped back at the hobbits knee, sliding up thigh to hip to arse with much greedier impatience than its mate had traveled the arm, but Bilbo’s own hands had flown to his shoulders and did not seem to be the least indicative of keeping him away, indeed they curled like hooks in his blouse. 

They would kiss, of that Thorin had no doubt, but he also would let no doubt delude Master Baggins of his intentions, his expectations. He surrendered the halfling’s face and sweet promising lips to spread his fingers across the expanse of a well rounded waist, sliding him near effortlessly from the stool across his own knee, settling the hobbit snuggly in his lap where the nature of his hunger could not be mistaken.

Master Baggins’ near panted, his breaths hot against Thorin’s jaw and his need as obvious against Thorin’s abdomen as his own was against the swell of a bottom in his lap. It seemed that between them there would be no misunderstandings, still he asked. “What favors,” his voice was rougher than intended, lower, near a whisper against the halfling’s mouth “can I offer such a generous host?”

The prospect drew a small whimper from the hobbit, and when that tongue peeked out to wet those lips again Thorin could feel the faintest of brush disturb the longer hairs of his beard. He would catch those lips with his own, taste that sweet nectar, he would carry this shy fidgety thing to his room with its too plush too soft bed and partake in his own feast, with but one request from that mouth he would welcome the luxuries that had discomforted him previously.

Dwalin snorted on the couch, shattering what spell they had wove and driving the hobbit from his arms like a blow. Master Baggins lurched back with such force that had Thorin not been groping him he’d have fallen to the floor, instead he scrambled back onto his own two shaking legs and fled the room, having to brace himself against the wall of the doorway as the consequences of their flirtation made walking a task.

Thorin glared at Dwalin, who slept on unaware of his crime, and considered kicking him. That he had been prepared for rejection mattered little, without the interruption he could have made quite a meal of the wanton little creature, the memory of which could have sustained well into their journey.

It was the dinner feast all over again. 

Dwalin would be getting the mid shift watches for weeks, Thorin vowed, evening out his breaths in an attempt to regain control of his arousal. He would take great delight in dragging his dear shield brother from sleep. In fact, just because they were in this home didn't warrant a lack of defense, he should rouse Dwalin now, to take the watch this night.

The shift of cloth was the only warning he got before the hobbit was back beside him, making barely a sound even as he was flushed and breathing heavy. Wordlessly he held out his hands, offering Thorin a lovely embroidered pouch, the pattern of which he could not make out in the low light. 

Thorin furrowed his brow, studying the good sized tobacco pouch, no doubt stuffed with the expensive pipeweed the Shire folk favored. He had breathed it only once, outside a smithy as he had handed off some branding tools to the cattle breeder who had looked over his work with smoking pipe between his teeth. 

That breath had been enough to know the quality.

This small pouch was worth as much as any feast his company enjoyed that night, likely more. It was a small fortune to a Dwarf of his means, and this hobbit was giving it to him like it was common.

“Um..” Master Baggins worried his lip between his teeth, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “if… you are not set on leaving too early, I could make you breakfast. That is, all of you, I could make all of you breakfast.” 

He could feel the tension in his forehead as his study deepened to a scowl. “I was informed your pantry is bare.”

The hobbit colored, and seemed to shrink away from his glower, still offering the pouch. “I can borrow from my neighbors, I'll replace everything when I go to market, so it won't be too much of a bother. They’ll love the scandal of it.” His mouth twisted a bit in a distasteful little smile, almost like anger, or pity, but what reason would a sheltered halfling have of self deprecation.

Thorin considered the pouch again, and accepted it. 

“My thanks, Master Baggins.” He whispered, and the hobbit smiled easier, truer, at his gratitude. It was too much, it was all too much. “Tally up the cost of my company’s stay here.” He said sternly, shouldering the formality and distance of his status as he did any armor. “Send it to Dis, of the Blue Mountains, my sister.” he clarified at the confused, pinched look. “She will see you compensated.”

“I dont-”

“Good night, Master Baggins.” His tone was firm, and he stood to illustrate his intent, leaving the smoking room, and the charity of his host, to the soft glow of the fire.

Once behind the door of his given room he listened, unlikely as it was that he would hear movement. Eventually he did hear the click of a closing door, and he relaxed against the barrier.

It would not have been a sound idea anyway, bedding the halfling. They had to leave early that morn, and he had miles of pony riding ahead of him. He needed the rest, and while the nights activities could have proven… enjoyable he did not need the exertion before the start of such an important journey.

Nor the mockery of his kin, once they discovered his sleeping arrangements come daybreak.

Still, he mused, pulling the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and breathing in the smell of woodsmoke and flowers, in the face of dried meats and cram, one could long for the satisfaction of a peach.

When morning found him ushering his company and Gandalf out of the round green door, careful not to disturb the sleep of their host, it was with a pouch full of tobacco and a square of cloth tucked close beneath his furs and mail, and the contract laid upon a table in the smoking room.

The hobbit would need proof, he reasoned, if he was to recoup his losses from Dis.


End file.
